ort, and, in the consciousness
of her work accomplished, she could die, going before the lady
Proserpine with a pure heart that need not fear to meet the eyes of
Sergius when they should ask its secret.

Rising quickly, she hastened to her chamber by passages where she would
not be likely to meet her host. Whatever intentions he might have
entertained toward her had been effectually suspended, if not
obliterated, by the course of events, and now he was much too busy
setting in order his demoralized household to think of her presence.
Therefore, she reached her apartment unnoticed, and, summoning her
tirewomen, surrendered herself to the tedious process of adornment
according to the accepted taste of Magna Graecia.

The afternoon was spent, ere all had been finished. Then she ate
hurriedly and with little appetite, drinking deeply of the Lesbian wine
till her cheeks flushed through the rouge, and her eyes sparkled.
Calavius had gone out, busy about affairs of state, and eager to
collect the strained threads of his influence--threads that might be
strengthened by their very straining, in the hands of a politician who
realized how men were ready to grant every complaisance to one whom
they had deserved ill of and whose vengeance they feared. Marcia found
herself wondering whether Iddilcar would indeed return as he had said.
Perhaps her attitude had seemed to him so unfavourable that he would
strike first;--but when and how? Perhaps affairs of state detained him
also. Perhaps, even, this man, Hannibal, whose eye pierced through all
subterfuges, had already divined the danger and set himself to nullify
it. Perhaps--and then, as she was reclining in the larger dining hall,
one of the slaves entered and whispered in her ear. She rose quickly.

"Tell my lord that she whom he favours awaits him at the hemicycle in
the garden, and guide him to me."

She spoke, marvelling at her steady tones, and, turning, walked, with
drooping head, to the semicircular, marble seat;--not the single seat,
back amongst the foliage, where she had met Perolla; "the philosopher's
chair," as Calavius had called it laughingly, where his son retired to
commune with thoughts too great for men. Sinking down at one end of
the hemicycle, she studied the carved lion's head that ornamented the
arm-rest, and the paw, thrusting out from the side-support, upon the
pavement beneath. It troubled her that such wonderful handicraft had
not considered tha